


i must have died alone

by liesmith



Series: your clothes underneath my clothes (chris/josh prompt collection) [1]
Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: AU, M/M, mentions of self harm, snippets of relationship, talks of mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4909132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmith/pseuds/liesmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and this is how it starts, and progresses, and ends</p>
            </blockquote>





	i must have died alone

**It starts like this:**

You’re at film school and your sisters visit during spring break. Normally you’d go home, but your parents are at the lodge this week and being at home just makes your head hurt more then staying at the lodge with them. Hannah brings her maybe-sorta-yes girlfriend, Sam, and then Sam brings a friend. Apparently Hannah has a hard time saying no about that kind of stuff. You just make up a bed on the floor for the mysterious blond all the while promising them it’s not a big deal, you’re just glad you have the space (the space mommy and daddy’s money bought you, a nice studio near campus) and it’s fine, it’s fine for this weird stranger to crash here. He doesn’t really talk, but you manage to glean from the girls that his name is Chris and he’s having a hard time back home. Sam always gets quiet when you try to probe her for more info, so you just give up trying. Whatever is wrong with the kid, maybe a good party will get it out of his system.

Apparently, that was a wrong idea. Kid ends up puking in your bathroom at three am. Can’t hold his liquor, or maybe just the dark stuff. Wimp. You still take care of him when Sam can’t be bothered, curled between your sisters on your bed. God dammit. You’ve gotta put Chris to bed and everything, like he’s a little kid. Cold facecloth, cold water, aspirin. You lay on your side on your couch and just gently dangle your hand near his, just so he knows you’re still there.

You figure you’d want someone to do that for you, so you’ll do it for this weird kid.

He does, however, manage to open up over the next few days. Actually talks, albeit quietly and half heartedly. You get that; you spend your whole life like that. He brightens up a rainy afternoon; the girls have gone out exploring the city and he chose to hang back, although you don’t know why. But you figure out pretty quickly it’s because he’s staring at the _Gurren Lagann_ mech you painstakingly bought with dad’s money, painted, and fit together over the course of four weeks that sits on your bookshelf.

So you bring it up.

“Mech fan or something?”

“Dude, this thing goes for like…. a million bucks. How?”

“Uh, dad.”

“Oh, right,” Chris looks towards you for a moment before looking back at the figure, pointing at it, “so did you do it all or did someone else?”

“Me. Four weeks. It was… uh…” You clear your throat. It was four weeks of pure fucking hell. The hell of snotty nosed, loud crying and cracked lips and numb fingertips, “It was… something.”

“Jealous,” Chris sighs, a heavy forlorn sigh, like God forbid, and you roll your eyes.

“You can pick it up. Just… be careful. Don’t pose it, I glued it that way for a reason.”

“Right!” Kid lights up like you’ve invited him for free reign to a candy shop and he, oh so gingerly, picks up the figure and just inspects it, turning it over and over in his hands, carefully and slowly, and you get up to stand near him, watching. He’s talking, but you don’t actually hear him; instead, you focus on the bruised knuckles and the way his hands tremble slightly. You’ve been there too.

You’re so out of focus with what’s going on that you don’t see Chris swing his arm and smack you, right in the face.

Mech’s in that hand too.

Mech comes out unharmed, somehow. You end up with a bloody nose.

Chris is immediately in your face apologizing and you can’t do anything but stare at him as you tilt your head back, pinching your nose.

“Bro, it’s fine,” You’re nasally and muffled and he looks even more like a whipped puppy if that’s possible.

“I’m sorry! Oh, God. Please don’t kick me out. The mech’s fine!”

“I’m not… just sit down, you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack.”

He sits down. Your nose stops bleeding after a moment. You take the mech from his clenched grip and inspect it, tongue flicking out to run along the blood you can feel on your upper lip. Mech’s fine so you stick it back on the shelf and look back at Chris, head cocked.

“You ok?”

“Are _you?!_ I smacked you with it! I thought you knew I was… gonna move with it!”

“I was looking at your hands.”

“Oh,” Chris gets quiet and looks down, suddenly becomes that kid from the first day. You rub the back of your neck, glancing away as your other hand jams into your pocket. Blood’ll get on your jeans, in your pocket, but who cares.

“I don’t mean to pry. Just… I’ve been there too.”

“I didn’t punch anyone.”

“I know. That’s… that’s why I said it. I’ve been there too.”

“Oh,” And he looks back up at you and you just give him a half hearted smile. Makes him smile back.

**And this is how it is now:**

He’s asleep, curled around you. You’re wide awake on your phone and occasionally the hand against your stomach tightens then relaxes. Bad dream you guess, but you know the light is making him drift in and out. You’d feel bad if you could sleep and weren’t choosing too; it’s not like you pick the days your brain goes into meltdown and can’t calm down enough for even a second of shut-eye.

Around four am he does wake up, buries his face in your hair and exhales.

“Love you,” He whispers and you almost don’t catch it.

“I know.”

It’s all you can say.

In the morning, neither of you talk about it. A week later, you still haven’t said it. You love him, god damn, you love him so _much_ , but you can’t get it out, so you try to show him in as many physical ways as possible. Pet him and kiss him and fuck him slow and sweet into your sheets. You catch him one night touching a mark left on his shoulder and you see a hint of a smile.

He knows you love him

**And a few months later:**

You drop out of film school in your junior year. Winter is dark and hits you hard, on top of everything else you fucking deal with, and you can’t get out of bed. When winter break rolls around, you just drop out. Send a email to your advisor. You still live in the same place; why give up a home? He lives here with you, anyways. Where else would you go? Where else would you both go?

But he stays with you. You both share similar experiences in vastly different ways, and he gets it. You don’t know what you’d do if you were alone. You don’t want to think about it, because you used to be alone like this, unable to face your sisters or anyone else. That’s why you know what punching a wall, yourself, _anything_ to make it better looks like.

**And this is how it ends:**

You wake in the same bed. Some mornings he’s still with you; others, he’s gone to class. You get up, shower, dress. Go to work. Work is a small editing company; film school never comes back into your focus. Last time Chris asked about it, you threw a glass at him. It had been a bad day. He’s in his third year at some tech school, learning how to be the future.

You love him, your hands curled under his shirt against his stomach, hands clutching him so he knows that he is your ground. And he loves you, hands tilting your face up for kisses, hands in your hair. It’s not easy living with you, you know that after twenty-five years. 

But he stays.

Life is weird like that.

**Author's Note:**

> i found prompts in my reference blog thank god for its existence. the prompt was a lot happier then how this turned out


End file.
